


Digging For Gold

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is well-beloved, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley doesn’t know what hit him, M/M, Minor Misunderstandings, Protective Soho locals, Sexual References, Soho locals love their local mad bookseller, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Crowley finally stops hiding his visits to the bookshop, now the celestial powers-that-be have decided to butt out, only to be faced with a whole new challenge.(OR: The people of Soho make sure this newcomer isn’t about to hurt their beloved local madman)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley, Ineffable Husbands - Relationship
Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545919
Comments: 129
Kudos: 1489





	Digging For Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授翻/GO】宝藏男友](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395555) by [Mary2333](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary2333/pseuds/Mary2333)



> This is a fic set before “Sleeping Like The Dead”, and it revives Chloe, the main OC from that fic

Mr Fell had many good friends in Soho, even some he didn't know about. The baker down the street always looked forward to his visits, and his wife loved to hear second-hand about Mr Fell's most recent mindless rambling. Anyone who visited the food bank knew he donated in bulk on a regular basis, and never the cheap stuff. He was the most enthusiastic patron of the local LGBTQ society. Anyone who took a regular stroll in St James Park would recognise him as the kind gentleman who always waved in passing. The only place he wasn't always welcome was the library, because he was suspected of several petty thefts of first-edition novels after a lengthy argument with the head librarian over whether they ought to be lent out at all. 

Chloe was one of his nearest and dearest, in so far as celestial entities can have mortal friends. She stopped by the shop for a breath of admittedly mouldy air and a friendly face every few days, usually just before she went to pick the kids up from school. It was nice. The bookshop held the same familiar quietness that it had when she'd first stumbled in, many years before. Tranquility was an irresistible luxury in the life of a busy mother, and she just couldn't help but keep coming back. Mr Fell was happy to have her. 

"Always a pleasure to have company on a day like this," he said when she paid him a visit late one afternoon, with a howling gale just beyond the dusty windows. "Set that umbrella down by the door, and let me fetch you some tea."

"Thanks," she said, hanging up her coat, too. She'd seen that docile face tainted with anger many a time before, if a customer was careless with his books, and she wasn't eager to be on the receiving end of that look. So, she took care not to drop rain onto any books, and followed him into the back. "Slow day?"

"Yes, marvellously so," he said, pouring her a cup of tea from a set he already seemed to have prepared. "Not a peep until you arrived, my dear."

"Oh," she said, sitting down on the familiar old sofa. Her brow furrowed. She scanned his face for any sign of consternation, but came up blank. "Am I the first person you've seen all day?"

"Yes, that's right," he said, carefully clearing a stack of books from his armchair, one by one. Chloe hummed, fiddling with the ends of her hair. "Why?"

"Aren't you - I don't know, bothered by it?" she said, keeping a close eye on his expression once again. It didn't shift. If he was lying, his tell was more difficult to spot than her teenage son's. 

"Not terribly much. I have my books, and my music," he said, with a gesture toward his gramophone. "And besides, you're well aware of what I think of anyone in the market for a book around these parts."

She gave a snort of laughter. "Okay, fine," she said, shaking her head and taking a tentative sip from her tea. "I just worry about you sometimes, that's all."

He rolled his eyes, though he'd fervently deny it if she dared to point it out. "So you keep saying," he said. He'd politely grimaced through many of Chloe's high-and-mighty lectures about sleep schedules, healthy alcohol intake and 'safe' exercise activities for _men of his age._ She meant well, at least, but she knew she was being ignored. It didn't deter her, though. "I assure you, my dear, I'm not about to drop dead anytime soon. My lifestyle is perfectly fine as it is."

She sighed. "I know you don't like to change, Fell, but really, if you'd just _try_ one of the exercise classes I recommended..." she said, choosing her next words carefully. "I don't know. Maybe you'd like it."

He tsked. _Me, exercising! I think not._

"You might even meet someone," she added in a faux-innocent tone. "I bet there's plenty of nice men at those things, just like you. There's bound to be someone you'll like."

"I imagine there might be," he said, frowning distractedly at the worn binding of one of his books. Her hopeful expression dropped to exasperation. 

"You're not listening, are you?"

"Not especially," he said. Honesty was the best policy, after all. Frankly, he'd switched off the moment she said _change._

She leaned on her fist, watching him fuss over the books he was moving from his chair. He was an elderly man, really, which she often forgot. He had to be nearing his seventieth birthday by now, and that's only if he was as young as he looked when they'd first met, too. There was no telling just how old he really was. No one could remember him moving in, even those who'd lived in Soho for nearly eighty years. Mr Fell had been here since time immemorial, it seemed... and never any sign of a companion. No flatmate, no business partner to explain to mysterious '& Co' on the sign outside, and certainly no lover. Or at least, to the humans, that's how it seemed. With the help of a little demonic magic, a Bentley and a drinking-buddy-come-major-crush had been passing unseen to and from the bookshop since 1941. Secrecy was a keystone of that particular relationship, after all. Chloe, blind to all this, simply looked at Mr Fell and saw a life that was crying out to be shared. He obviously had more love in his heart than he knew what to do with. 

"I worry that you're lonely sometimes, Mr Fell," she said, giving up on subtlety entirely. "Perhaps I should try finding you a date."

He squeaked, fumbling with an antique _Wuthering Heights._ "O - oh, no, no, that won't be necessary, thank you Chloe," he said, now paying rapt attention. "I am quite capable of arranging those sorts of things for myself."

She arched a brow. "So you will?"

Flustered, he avoided her gaze. "That's none of your business," he said quietly. He clearly didn't want to be short with her, but he would be, if she didn't let the matter drop. She held up her hands, knowing when to back off. 

"Okay, okay. I trust you. I'll leave that particular matter in your capable hands," she said. _I'll give him a year, then I'll intervene,_ she silently promised herself. She wouldn't usually be so pushy, but Fell must have a limited number of years left by now, and it stung her to think of even a single one going to waste. 

The exact reason for Aziraphale's discomfort would be hard to pinpoint. Maybe it was rooted in habit; six millennia of secrecy and shame was a hard routine to break, and talk of romance had always been frowned upon in Heaven. What was more likely, however, was that Aziraphale was flustered because he didn't want to admit that he already _had_ a date. He glanced at the calendar, hoping she wouldn't notice the red love-heart he'd drawn over this coming Saturday. 

That had been Tuesday. Chloe left the shop having forgotten all about their disagreement over his love life, and plunged back into her busy life. She was run off her feet with shopping, parents' evenings, after-school football matches and her daughter's first amateur production of Shakespeare at the week-end. She called Mr Fell on Friday, only realising at the last second that he might want to come along too. He'd been a regular babysitter for all four of her children, and she knew her daughter would be pleased to have his support. To her surprise, he turned down the invitation. Apparently, he had plans.

"You, going out on a Saturday night?" she said, mildly impressed. "Some sort of book club? An auction?"

"Ah - erm - not precisely," he said nervously on the other end of the phone. "More of a social evening, you could say."

"Aha! Finally taking my advice, are we?" she said, sharing a triumphant glance with her eldest son, who laughed. He'd already guessed who she must be talking to. It didn't even cross her mind that it could be a date. "Just make sure you look after yourself, won't you? Drink responsibly, and don't go wandering the streets on your own if it's dark."

"I'm not one of your children, you know. I'll be perfectly fine," he replied snippily, before picking up a more apologetic tone. "Terribly sorry about missing out on _Much Ado_ , but this evening has been booked in for such a long time. I really can't cancel..."

"Don't worry about it. It was short-notice anyway," she said. "Have fun on your night out."

She had to bite her lip to prevent herself from tacking on another fussy warning like _be safe_ or _please don't stay out too late._ He was a grown man, after all, and he was far from feeble. She just worried about him. He was her most reliable friend, perhaps even something akin to family, and the thought of losing him... She shook herself, grounding herself firmly in the here and now. With any luck, Mr Fell would be around for many years to come, and she'd not have to grieve until her hair was as white as his. 

Her daughter's performance in _Much Ado About Nothing_ was excellent, maternal bias be damned. She played Beatrice, and she played the role like she was made for it. Mr Fell would have been delighted. He'd been the one who introduced her to Shakespeare in the first place, on one of those long afternoons when Chloe used to work her second job. Although she wasn't supposed to, she decided to bend the rules and film a few scenes, planning to drop by the shop tomorrow and let him see. It wouldn't compare to a live show, but he would appreciate the thought. 

Late Sunday morning, she finally managed to wriggle free from her to-do list and visit the shop. She took out her phone, glancing at the screen as she hopped up the steps to the shop door. She frowned, worrying that 47% battery life wouldn't be enough to show him all the clips... So worried, in fact, she didn't notice that the door was already opening. She collided with someone in the doorway. 

"Oh! God, sorry, I wasn't looking," she said, taking a step back. She got her bearings, looking up to see a lanky, pale man in the doorframe, with blackout sunglasses and obvious bedhead. His black shirt hung half-open, creased and sloppily buttoned. She blinked. He wasn't the usual clientele. She would've pushed past him into the shop and just ignored him, but his arms were blocking the entrance. 

"Shop's closed," he grunted. 

She hesitated. "Sorry?"

"I said, the shop's closed," he said, his voice gruff with sleep. 

"Then what are you doing in there?" she said, crossing her arms. "Mr Fell's a good friend of mine, and I've never seen you before."

The man arched a brow. "What am I doing? Um," he said, glancing over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he sighed, and dropped his arms. "Leaving. I'm leaving."

He shouldered past her, crossing the road at a brisk pace. She watched him, befuddled, until he climbed into his Bentley and pulled out into the road at a reckless speed. Unease prickled at her skin. Who was he? Why the rush? Had he done something to Mr Fell? Heart lurching, she stormed into the shop, running into the back room. The slam of the door almost made Mr Fell spill his tea. 

"Good Lord, Chloe!" he said, pressing a hand to his chest. "What on earth has gotten into you? I wasn't expecting you this morning."

She struggled for words. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "Who - ?"

She couldn't form any words beyond that. Mr Fell looked fine: well-dressed, well-groomed, well-mannered as always. There wasn't a hair out of place. "Ah. Ran into Crowley on his way out, did you?" he guessed. He gave a strained smile. "I do hope he wasn't too unfriendly."

"Uh... not too bad, no," she said, dropping her arms by her side. She stared blankly. "Where'd he come from? He's new, isn't he?"

He shook his head, walking over to the table to set down his teacup. There was something odd about his gait. "Not especially. We've known one another for donkey's years," he said fondly. 

Chloe looked over her shoulder as if expecting to see an echo of the tall, dark figure still in the doorway. "Really?" she said, digesting that new information. 

"Yes. He's really rather nice, once you get to know him. But for Heaven's sake, don't tell him I said that, or I'll be in bother," he said with a light chuckle. "Just last night, we were talking about you, in fact. He's partial to one or two of Shakespeare's works as well, you know."

"Last night?" she repeated. He hummed in idle affirmation, making his way over to another shelf with a feather duster. It finally clicked what was wrong with his walk. "Are you limping?"

"Li - limping?" he said, a slightly shrill note appearing in his voice, as if she'd caught him doing something he oughtn't've done. His ears went pink. "N - erm - well, why would I - ? I don't know what on Earth you're talking about."

His own defensiveness was his downfall. She gasped as the pieces slotted into place: plans for the previous night that just couldn't be cancelled, and a disheveled man leaving the bookshop the next morning, leaving behind a bookkeeper who now couldn’t quite walk straight. "That was a date!" she cried. Aziraphale cringed, hugging his black feather duster to his chest as his blush spread to his cheeks. "Did you — with him — last night? _With him?"_

"Did I what?" he said with a skittish smile. He was only digging himself a deeper hole. 

"Sleep with him," she said. He gasped. "You did! Wow, I didn't know you had it in you."

"Chloe!" he said, gathering up a seemingly random selection of books just for an excuse to carry them urgently out of the room. "Really, how vulgar!"

"I'm right, though, aren't I?" she said, following him with a broad grin. 

He pouted. "I couldn't possibly comment." 

Read: _Yes._

Subtle changes began to take place in the bookshop. It was now closed consistently at every mealtime, and there seemed to be some sort of compromise going on with regards to music. Chloe first noticed that when she'd walked in to the sound of Fleetwood Mac instead of Mr Fell's preferred classical composers. He still tapped along to the beat, though. She smiled. He looked happy, happier than he ever had. She sometimes asked about his love life and, sometimes, he would shyly admit that he had a date planned. It was always with Crowley.

"Where is he?" she said, looking around. Today, Bach was playing on the gramophone. "I haven't actually had a chance to meet him properly yet."

"He has a flat elsewhere in the city," he said, perched on a stool behind his counter. "He'll be here later, I'm sure. I've got a lovely vintage wine lined up for this evening."

"Ah, I won't impose, then. I'll try and catch him another day," she said. 

The topic of the elusive Mr Crowley didn't crop up again until the next day, when she stopped by her favourite coffee shop. Tom, the new barista, was a friend of hers, and she figured she'd show him a little support by dropping by when she could. That, and he never minded sharing gossip, if there was no queue behind her. 

"Chloe... You're good mates with Mr Fell, right?" he said, clicking the takeaway lid into place on her cup. She hummed, rooting around in her purse. "Any idea who the guy in the sunglasses is? Friend, employee...? He's been hanging around the shop for a while."

"Uh, that'll be Crowley. His new... boyfriend, I suppose," she said, picking out the coins she needed. 

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Makes sense, I guess," he said, fiddling pensively with the cleaning cloth. That wasn't what he'd been hoping to hear. 

"Something the matter?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Just didn't think that was his type," he said. "Besides, Fell must be seventy-odd by now. What is this guy, fifty, maybe fifty-five, at most? That's odd, don't you think?"

"I hadn't thought about it. It's not unusual for there to be an age gap, sometimes," she said, mulling it over. She'd only seen Crowley once and, now she thought of it, he did look younger than she might have expected of Fell's partner. "Twenty years is a big one, though. Still. They're consenting adults, so what does it matter? Mr Fell seems happy, so I'm happy."

She set the money for the drink down on the counter as if that was the end of it. Tom wrung the cloth, clearly disagreeing. "I'm just thinking. He's on the older side of middle age, this new guy, maybe looking for an early retirement. Mr Fell's got a reputation around here, and he might've got wind of it. A wealthy old man, living alone, no family, probably a little too soft for his own good... That’s bound to attract vultures eventually."

She crossed her arms. "Tom, that’s very pessimistic," she said sternly, though she was already toying with the possibility in her own head. “He might just... enjoy the company of older men, that’s all. We don’t know.”

He held up his hands. "This just came out of the blue, that's all I'm saying. I don't want Mr Fell getting used by some bloke who only sees him as a meal ticket," he said. Chloe sighed, and nodded. She knew what he meant. Her ex-husband had been cut from that cloth, and the only good thing he'd ever given her back was her children. 

"I'll look out for him, don't worry," she said, taking her coffee. "Let's just hang back in the meantime, okay? We don't want to spoil this for him, if there really is nothing sinister going on."

That conversation with Tom stuck in her head. What if he was right? What if Crowley was - oh, what was that word her son had used once...? A gold-digger? She winced, thinking of the gold signet ring Mr Fell always wore, and the shiny chain on his pocket watch. He was always making passing references to expensive wines and restaurants, and getting excited to attend extremely exclusive productions of everything from theatre to opera. Couple that with his well-known generosity for local charities, and his wealth was no secret to anyone local. Mr Fell was Soho's best-kept secret, though. Very few people beyond their quarter knew him at all. Realising that, Chloe took out her phone, and sent a text out to a few different numbers. If Crowley had come from outside Soho, someone must have told him about Mr Fell in the first place.

_Has anyone come around asking about Mr Fell sometime in the last few months? Specifically a tall, thin redhead, dark glasses, kinda waspish. Just curious._

She got in her car, and listened to the notifications rolling in as she drove. Clearly, she'd struck on a topic that had been bothering quite a few people recently. She checked her phone briefly while held up in traffic. _Someone like that picked up Fell's last order of biscuits... he didn't say a lot. I'm not sure how I feel about him. Who is he?_ replied the baker. 

_Yes!! I knew I wasn't going crazy. He's that LUNATIC that drives the classic Bentley, I KNEW I'd seen Fell in that car!!!_ said one of the local dog-walkers-slash-nosey-neighbours.

 _Saw him at my shift in the Ritz with Fell. They turn up a lot. They're dating I think?_ replied one of her son's friends. _Got a friend working at Chef Ramsay's restaurant. She says they show up there too now and then. Hope that helps :)_

 _Haven't met the guy, but old Fell did come in the other day and bought a gift for Valentine's Day this year. Figured he must've had his eye on someone, maybe it's this guy? Lucky bastard, the watch I sold Fell was worth more than my car,_ said the jeweller. 

_Uhhhhh I don't know if it's the same guy but there was a redhead who picked Fell up from his last appointment,_ said the barber. _He was a proper gentleman. Held the door open for him and everything._

 _I know the one you mean. Creepy bastard,_ was the final reply from the surly flower-shop owner. _Apparently my flowers aren't good enough for his majesty. Fucking snob._

She was stunned. Crowley seemed to have just popped up in the last few months, apropos of nothing, and slotted into Mr Fell's life like he'd always been there. No one had sent him in his direction, accidentally or otherwise. There certainly seemed to be mixed reviews on his manners. She spent the rest of her drive home wondering what to do. She didn't want to interfere, but if she turned a blind eye, what then? Crowley could be bleeding him dry while she did nothing to stop it. She didn't want to believe it, but she couldn't take the risk. She already had people telling her that Fell was buying expensive gifts for his new boyfriend, so what was next? 

She bit her lip, pulling up in her driveway. Maybe she was being silly, but everyone knew some horror story about how these things could end. A gullible, good-natured person who happened to have some money, finding a partner who was almost too good to be true... Next comes the gifts, the holidays, maybe even the wedding, often in some spectacular whirlwind romance, until all of a sudden they're found dead at the bottom of the stairs with only one name written into their will. What’s more, there was far more money tied up in the book collection that she even dared to imagine, and if Crowley got rid of Mr Fell, he’d take over everything. He could gut the whole shop and abscond with the profits, maybe even sell off the real estate to some new development just for good measure. It made too much sense. Even if Crowley didn’t get away with the murder, it would make little difference. The damage would be done. Not only would they lose a pillar of the community, they’d lose the essence of him, too. It would be like he’d never been there at all. Decades of memories, lost... She gulped. _No,_ she thought, a fiery maternal urge taking hold. No way was that going to happen to Mr Fell. If this Crowley guy really did love him, he was going to have to prove it. If he didn't, then she wouldn't rest until he was tossed out on his ear. 

Crowley was having a whale of a time. Freedom was even sweeter than he thought it would be; at long last, he didn't have to hide his presence in Soho, and he and Aziraphale had been doing some much-needed catching up on their 6000 year relationship. They'd gone from strength to strength, and Aziraphale didn't care a hoot about how fast, not anymore. Crowley had to admit, he was spoiling his angel a bit. He fetched everything he wanted from the bakery, and usually tossed in a few extras as he went, for a bit of variety. He paid the bill at every meal. He drove him anywhere he wanted to go, taking great relish in all his flustered complaints about road safety. He'd even started sniping online book auctions, just to surprise him with a rare book he didn't even know was on the market. He couldn't help it. Aziraphale's smile had been his guiltiest pleasure for thousands of years, and now he had it close at hand, every day. In his opinion, it was at its most radiant first thing in a morning, surrounded by the black silk of Crowley's bed.

He headed down to a local cafe, which had apparently come up highly recommended by a friend of Aziraphale's. Crowley had no complaints about taking a short walk down there to collect some coffee and a sweet treat. He shouldered his way into the cafe, hardly sparing a glance for the patrons dotted about the tables, and too wrapped up in his own head to notice how the conversation tapered off as he walked in. 

He cast an eye over the chalkboard menu at the counter. "Hi. I'll take two Blue Mountain filter coffees, one with cream and sugar, one without," he said, quickly pinpointing the best menu item. "Throw in a few amaretti biscuits while you're at it."

"Right away, sir," said the barista tightly. Crowley arched a brow as he turned to start preparing his order. What was that all about? 

Shrugging it off, he tapped idly on the counter while he waited. It was a nice place, good range of products. Decent decor. Probably more his taste than Aziraphale's, with all the plants offset against a pure black feature wall. Someone cleared their throat behind him, interrupting his mental critique. 

"Hi," said the woman. She couldn't have been older than thirty-five, but the stresses and strains of life had aged her prematurely. She stuck out her hand. "Crowley, right?"

He paused. "Yeah," he said, shaking her hand. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. "Sorry, do I know you?"

"Not officially. I'm Chloe. We met the other month, that morning at Fell's," she said with a glowing smile, providing a veneer for her calculating gaze. 

"Oh, right. I remember now," he said, leaning back from her slightly with a glance at the barista. He was dragging his heels with that coffee. "Small world."

"Isn't it just? Funny that we've never met before, though. Mr Fell says he's known you for ages," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter, with no intention of leaving. "How come you're hanging around all of a sudden?"

"Things changed," he said stiffly. 

"Yeah, I hear you're dating now. Congratulations, by the way," she said. He grunted, his body language closing up. "You must be something special. I've been trying to set Mr Fell up with someone for years, with no luck."

His head snapped around. "You've been doing what?" he said, much more sharply than he'd meant to. Chloe almost flinched. _Well, he didn't like that. He didn't like that one bit,_ she thought. Crowley seemed to realise his mistake, and quickly smoothed his irritation down again. "Hm. Good thing it didn't work, then."

"How'd you meet him?" she said. 

"It was... in a garden. Decades ago," he said, distracted. It was at this point he'd begun to look around, seeing the surreptitious glances being thrown their way from the tables. The barista was blatantly not even making the coffee anymore. They were watching him. He turned on Chloe. "Alright, what's going on? Did someone put you up to this? Who was it, Gabriel? Hastur?"

She took a step back, surprised by the burst of aggression. "Hey! No one put me up to anything," she said, holding her ground. A man at a nearby table tensed, poised to intervene.

"Then what do you want?" he said, curling his lip. She could've sworn his teeth were slightly pointed. “Why ambush me in a coffee shop?”

"We want to make sure you're not taking advantage of Mr Fell," someone called from the back of the room, Chloe winced. She’d been hoping to avoid saying it outright, in case Aziraphale caught wind of what they were up to. At this point, the onlookers had abandoned any pretence of secrecy. 

He gave a bark of laughter. "Taking advantage? Where the hell did you get that idea?"

The jeweller stood from his table, pointing at the watch on his wrist, which he’d sold to Aziraphale not long ago. It was a _Vacheron Constantin_. "Where'd you get the thirty-eight grand watch?" he asked. Several people gasped audibly.

He tugged his sleeve back down over it. "I thought gossip was frowned upon," he sneered, agitated by the suspicious stares from all around. Internally, he winced. _Did I just take the moral high ground? Shit. Bloody angel's been rubbing off on me..._

"We’re just looking out for our friend," Chloe cut in, taking his attention back. He saw the sincerity behind her stoic expression.

He sighed. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, here," he said, taking out his wallet. He flipped it open. Her eyes almost bugged out of her head: it was full of black and gold bank cards, with a thick sheaf of £50 notes tucked in the back. 

"That is... a lot of cash," she said, stunned. 

"Not the point I was making," he deadpanned, though it was a very intentional coincidence. He pointed at the photograph on the left side of the wallet. It was a picture of Aziraphale, smiling, a glass of wine half-lifted to his lips while fireworks littered the dark sky behind him. He flashed it to the room. "That picture hasn't left my wallet since it was taken. It was just gone midnight, New Year's Day, at the turn of the millennium."

The photo was aged, tinged slightly with age and wear, and would almost certainly stick to the leather if you tried to pull it loose. "You've carried a picture of him with you for almost twenty years," she said quietly. Weighty silence sat over the room. 

"Careful what accusations you're making in future," he said, tucking his wallet back into his jacket. He fixed her with a stern look. "I've loved him longer than you've been alive."

He swallowed hard, the words tingling on his tongue as he said them. It was bizarre. He could just say that now: the truth, out loud, for anyone to know. The gravity of his confession wasn't lost on anyone. They saw it in the way he stood, tense, as if expecting someone to strike at him just for saying it out loud. Heavy sadness sat beneath that love, the story of many years wasted and a heart which had been broke a thousand times over. He loved Aziraphale. It was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'm sorry," Chloe said, hanging her head. It had been a long time since anyone had cowed her like this. After all those vile things she’d thought of him, guilt poured down her spine in rivers. "If there's anything we can do to make it up to you..."

He turned as she gestured broadly to the room full of eavesdropping locals, who were similarly ashamed of themselves. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. There was one thing that had been giving him trouble recently, and humans could be so much more resourceful sometimes... "Can you keep a secret?" he asked tentatively. There was a chorus of agreement. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've... sort of been... in the market for a ring, recently..."

The room took a collective gasp. "Like - an _engagement_ ring?" cried Tom from behind the counter. Crowley's ears heated up. 

"Yup."

"Say no more!" said a man at a nearby table. "My brother's a goldsmith. He sells all sorts of stuff, real high-end, completely bespoke. It'll be right up Fell's alley."

"Oh. That's sorted, then," he said, slightly dumbfounded. Huh. Who knew that asking for help was so easy?

"And once he says yes, you'll be needing a wedding planner," said the man's wife. "I know a fantastic lady. Her name's Jenny. You'll get along famously."

"Thanks, I - "

"I know a good florist!" someone else called, cutting him off. 

"Dibs on making the wedding cake," the baker cut in. 

"Send us the wish-list for wedding presents, won't you? There's a good chap," said an elderly woman in the corner. Crowley wasn't sure who to answer.

A group of woman began giggling across the room. "We'll have to take Mr Fell shopping for the wedding outfit. Maybe pick up a little treat for the honeymoon, too, hm?" one said with an audacious wink at Crowley. He spluttered in embarrassment. He was glad Aziraphale wasn’t there to hear that. 

"D'you think you'll have a church wedding?" asked Tom, leaning over the counter to join in.

Crowley looked desperately back and forth. "Jus - w - hang on!" he said, flailing. "I haven't even asked him yet!"

"Asked who what?" said an all-too-familiar voice at the door. Crowley, and the entire room, whirled around like they'd been caught red-handed. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, an uncertain smile on his face as he picked up on the strange atmosphere. "What? You're all looking terribly shifty, and I’m sorry, dear, but you were taking an awful long time over fetching coffee. Not plotting anything nefarious, are we?"

Crowley drew a blank. "Uhhhhh - nefar - ? Me? Nefarious? No, that's - that's a strong word," he babbled, to the amusement of everyone watching. Aziraphale arched a brow. "Swear on my life, angel."

"Awww," said everyone. Crowley whirled around, jabbing a finger all around the shop.

"Oi! Shut it, you lot!" he barked. They just chuckled. "It's a pet name. Never heard a pet name before?" 

Chloe edged over to the door. "Is he always like this?" she asked Aziraphale quietly, watching Crowley start a bickering match with the goldsmith’s brother, who was insisting he was an adorable boyfriend. 

Aziraphale beamed. "Yes, he is," he said. Chloe looked at him, that endlessly fond smile born from a love affair that had been ageing like a fine wine since time immemorial. Sat on the fringes of that beautiful story, she took a moment to share his happiness. 

"I tell you what, Mr Fell," she said, giving him a light nudge and nodding in Crowley's direction. "I think you've struck gold with this one."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, no proof-reading this time, but hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
